


Courtship Woes

by Jillybeanies



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic, Drinking, Gen, Girls Being Girls, Humor, mentions of alochol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillybeanies/pseuds/Jillybeanies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke isn't the marrying type but that doesn't stop her mother from trying to find her a husband. The girls make the best of it by examining the worst applicants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship Woes

**Author's Note:**

> Another warm thank you to [freshneverfrozen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/freshneverfrozen) for looking at this and being my beta. This fic wouldn't be nearly as coherent without you.

"Marian darling, come over here."

Hawke is in the middle of pulling on her new boots when Leandra waves for her to come join her in the study. With a reluctant groan the short haired rogue kicks off her shoes and claims the spot next to her mother at the large table, which is hidden beneath stacks and stacks of potential marriage candidates. Leandra sits comfortably in the overstuffed chair looking every bit a noble born and bred. Her brows are knit in determination as she sorts through the organized chaos only she can understand: family histories, letter recommendations, even miniature portraits of men who come in all shapes and sizes.

So far, Hawke's favorite is a man old enough to be her grandfather, whose skin for some reason or another reminds her of the moldy cheese back at uncle Gamlen's.

"Maker's breath...Did they really need to send their entire lineage back to the first blight?" Hawke asks when she deliberately grabs a scroll from the bottom of the stack and silently revels in its collapse.

"Indeed, I was surprised myself. At least we know they're of good blood and little magic." Leandra quickly reprimands her eldest, much like she did back in Lothering when Hawke would squirm too much and was made to sit on her hands.

Marian has to physically hold herself back from gagging at that sentence alone. Somehow in the last year her mother had gotten it in her mind that Marian was well past the proper age of marrying and, if she wanted to secure her daughter's future, a suitor must be found. Personally, Hawke would much rather her mother go back to frantically remodeling the estate or even take up gardening with Merrill. Anything would be better than becoming her mother's new pet project.

"Since you declined the Viscount's proposition to restore the Amell's name, we only have about two-dozen families to pick from and they're all rather minor nobles. But we'll make do. Now, Marian," Leandra easily spots the signs of her daughter's waning interest. It starts with the casual leaning back of her neck and slips into having her mouth wide open as if she's attempting to catch nonexistent rainfall in an attempt to drown herself. Leandra pinches at Hawke's alabaster skin and then ignores the overly dramatic cry.

"Because you are a bit older than other girls this limits the pool even more. Might I suggest we start seriously looking them?"

"Only if we start with this one," Hawke holds up her favorite applicant, the man who looks like he smells of cheese. "He's rather dashing...in a he's-about-to-keel-over-at-any-moment type of way."

"That's Count Isaac Curnow of Tantervale, I hear his family is heavily involved with the guards."

"Didn't Aveline say something about that place one time at dinner?" Hawke asks her mother, who is much better at remembering all those boring guard details Aveline insists on repeating. Leandra easily plucks the miniature painting out of Hawke's hands and places it to the side.

"Honestly, do you remember nothing from the lessons I taught you?"

Hawke falls back into the comfort of her own stuffed chair, her arms crossed in a relaxed manner. She remembers the lessons, the mind-numbingly boring ones like geography or the Chant of Light taught in the dead of summer when cicadas cried and dampness hung in the air. Summers in Lothering had a unique way of making those lessons even longer, especially when village children could be heard racing and screaming as they shed their clothes in search of the crisp, cool creek.

And for a moment she's ten years old again, all awkward sharp angles and cramped in the  sweltering kitchen with Mother, Carver, and Bethany. Hawke was supposed to be helping Bethany with her letters, but mostly she ignores her because Bethany is a good student, unlike Carver who insisted that learning to use a sword was more important than letters. Hawke can almost picture the faded page numbers that were home to her favorite drawings painstakingly scribbled in between the margins of her father's magical text. Father hadn't been overly pleased with her additions; it was one of the seldom times that Malcolm Hawke had lost his good humor and reprimanded his eldest. But Hawke likes to think the scribbles and added unibrows to famous mages brought a chuckle or two whenever he instructed Bethany with her magic.

"Let's be honest, Mother, once the test was over I forgot almost all of it."

Fresh from her daydream, Hawke is forced to notice how still the air in the estate is around her. Where there was once screams or laughter of five family members, now there is only the crackle of a dying fire and the catching of paper on the black fountain pen.

"You're just like your father, for once in your life try and be serious. I won't be around forever."

"There's always uncle Gamlen," Hawke suggests in her casual, light-hearted manner, only Leandra has never shared her daughter's humor and instead returns to her busy work.

It does occur to Hawke that she could leave. She could just gather up her knives, snap her leathers into place, and leave Mother to her pointless task. Except gut-wrenching guilt has a way of keeping her anchored to the chair and her thoughts stuck on the fact that she is the sole remaining child of three.

It doesn't help that an annoying voice in the back of her skull taunts her with the knowledge she is responsible.

What had potentially been an endlessly amusing afternoon spent hurtling pebbles at the helms of unsuspecting templars is instead spent listening to the scratch of Leandra drafting letters to families Hawke has no intention of ever meeting. In the meantime, Hawke jots down a note to be passed onto Bethany via a certain bullied Knight-Captain.

_ Bethany, _

_ I'm starting to think you got the better part of this whole you being held in a mage prison that used to conveniently hold slaves situation. Alright bad joke, there's nothing funny about you in the Gallows. Mother is doing fine since moving back into the estate. She's channeling all that apostate-wife energy into finding me a husband! And it's all that mystery suitor of her's fault. She's so happy she keeps insisting that I too should know the feeling. Is there any room in those Gallows? No? Well, in that case please send help or at least a potion to turn me into a lizard so I can escape this nightmare. Merrill says it's impossible but you've always been clever, I'm sure you can work something out. I'll keep you informed. _

_ Your sister, _

_ Marian _

_ P.s. have you given any thought to my suggestion on learning to breathe fire? _

 

Hawke glances over the atrocious scribbles she calls writing when Leandra puts down her fountain pen and rubs at her sore shoulders.

"Darling, I forgot to tell you, I've gone and made an appointment with a very famous painter who has agreed to paint your portrait."

Hawke nods in all the right places and starts to scribble on a spare sheet of parchment.

"If you go out tonight, try and make sure you don't stay out too late."

"Yes. Painter, very important."

Hawke waves her mother off, completely ignoring the woman's words as she's rather busy turning her hands outline into a monstrous lurker. The crisp click of Mother's heels ascend up the stone staircase and eventually into her room, signaled by the closing of the door. Hawke stretches back and out of the prison chair and checks the time on the grandfather clock, one imported from a famous Fereldan who died in the Blight. It's 18:16. Knowing her band of misfits, most have already arrived at the Hanged Man. Hawke sees no point in rushing.

The elite of Kirkwall are just coming home when Hawke steps outside her estate. A few elves run at full sprint, their arms loaded down with packaged goods, their faces a pale white. Nobody, not even the Viscount, is ignorant enough to believe in safety once darkness falls and summons the city's gangs into tight alleyways. Hawke waves a lazy hand at Worthy, who has just finished packing up his wares, and easily vanishes down the slave-built stairs that separate the poorest of the poor and the rich.

Out of habit, once Hawke's boot touches the streets of Lowtown, she keeps her steps light and walks the path of shadows in an effort to avoid drawing as much attention to herself as possible. Instant celebrity and incredible riches beyond belief are often paired with many ill attempted knife to her kidney. Hawke arrives at the Hanged Man just as the sun vanishes behind the many foundries that pump a consistent concentrated smoke that smothers the area and gives long-time citizens coughing fits. Hawke enters her favorite drunk-infested tavern and is instantly welcomed to the tear-producing stench of piss, ale, and vomit. A particularly lovely combination, only lacking in the stink of fish.

Isabela, Varric, Fenris, and Anders are already tucked away at the large table Varric keeps in his suite, each sipping their own mug of mystery alcohol.

"Hawke!" They call in greeting, never once taking their eyes off the stained set of cards.

"Who's winning?" Hawke wonders aloud as she climbs over the old furniture to claim the empty seat next to a sweating Anders.

"Well it ain't Blondie over here." The dwarf cackles when he lays out his cards. "Ha! Thank you for the easy money. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

Hawke feels herself grinning at the small shimmy Varric does when he throws himself across the long table to collect his winnings. The others toss down their cards with colorful curses lining their lips. Especially entertaining, at least to Hawke, is Anders, whose cards lay abandoned and whose forehead is flush against the table.

"That was all of it, all my saved coin from the past month," Anders laments into the wood's grain as if it would understand his hurt.

"Somehow that makes both our losing even better," Fenris casually taunts from across the table. From the sounds of it, Isabela punches him. Good.

"I could have bought a new coat with that! I wouldn't, but I could have."

Hawke thanks the Maker that for once Anders ignores the elf's jeering comments.

"Aw. Cheer up, buttercup. There's always next time." Isabela offers an awkward yet affectionate pat on the feathered disaster Anders insists on calling a coat. She leaves him once she notices her empty mug and saunters down the whining stairs in search of more booze. Hawke remains fascinated by the fashion disaster and is in the middle of seeing how many feathers she can successfully pluck from Ander's awful coat without him noticing when Isabela returns. The singing pirate quickly puts a drink in Hawke's empty hands.

Hawke thanks her friend, then drains the mug.

"Whoof," Isabela winces in between large gulps of booze meant only to get the patrons drunk, "Hard day?"

"Not in the way you're thinking."

Thankfully, the pirate doesn't press and instead the group starts to settle into the homey albeit dingy suite they've all grown terribly fond of over the years. Varric, forever the gracious host, makes sure to keep their drinks filled and bellies at least partly full with whatever mystery meat the cook had wrangled up that morning. Hawke guesses cat. It has to be cats. What else could it be? Felines are practically nonexistent in the city, which just happens to be overrun with mice and rats. Clearly something was happening to the cat population and all signs point to the stew.

Anders pales. Hawke helps herself both to the bowl and stale bread that he abandons.

Two hours later and Hawke is just starting to feel that pleasant buzz that settles into a person after they've drank a hearty amount and little in their stomach. Laughter comes easy, paired with raunchy jokes and stories meant to one up each other. Merrill shows up somewhere in between when Hawke goes to empty her bladder and the fascinating conversation with a drunk who swears he was a prince of Ferelden.

After what felt like the entire life story of the drunk, Hawke narrowly escapes with the help of two or three drinks. Once she's back in her seat Merrill chirps a friendly hello at her from across the table. Hawke hungrily scoops up the rest of the mystery stew with a biscuit and sucks her fingers clean. A quick glance down at the Dalish's hands shows fingernails stained with her blood. Today, it's blood mixed with what looks like the earth of potted plants Varric had gifted her in a vain attempt to keep her out of the Viscount's gardens.

"They're comin' in real nice, all of them different colors. An' they really do smell so lovely, not like here at'all."

"Glad to hear it, Daisy. But why am I'm still hearing complaints about you sneaking into the Viscount's garden?" Varric asks.

"I don't understan' what the issue is. He never actually uses the garden and I do a fair bit of weedin'! You wouldn't believe the things his gardener gets away with. You'd think they could spot the difference between weeds an herbs."

Isabella bangs her fist on the table and Varric chuckles.

"Kitten you are the worst criminal I've ever heard of. It's adorable." Isabela muses. Merrill's cheeks explode with red when the pirate presses a wet sloppy kiss onto her round cheeks.

"Well, that's good! I don't think the world could handle another Rivaini or another Hawke."

The two rogues clink their drinks together at Varric's not-compliment.

"Which reminds me," Varric rubs his nonexistent stubble and turns to Hawke, who's choked down a shot and been handed another foamy beer from Norah. "I didn't find any new bodies in Lowtown today. What gives, Hawke?"

Marian shrugs and settles the froth in her glass with a lazy twirl of an oily finger.

"The night is still young, Varric, and I'm sure some idiot - " she stops in the middle of her sentence, her fade-colored eyes wide and train of thought long gone. "What was the question again?"

"The lack of new bodies in Lowtown?"

"Thank you, Merrill." Such a smart girl. So wise but so dumb. What idiot willing makes a pact with a demon? Her thoughts back on track, Hawke dramatically turns from Merrill back to the two Varrics now residing at the head of the table "Right. Idiots and how they ALWAYS try to jump me."

"Yeah, you'd think they'd know better by now." Varric states dryly. 

Hawke hums what Varric supposes is an agreement into her open palm.

"But," Hawke rolls her head to the side, "If you must know... Mother seems to think it's high time I tie the knot. Settle down. Buy the cow. Sow the garden. I need a husband and she is rather insistent on getting me one considering I'm... Well, I can't remember her exact phrasing but I'm pretty sure it boiled down to something something... ruining every relationship I've ever had…something, something."

That sounds about right. Hawke doesn't notice the shared stares between the three; she's running on straight alcohol and the high energy of the tavern, so her sloshed words ring louder than usual and carry over to a certain elf's ears.

She chugs the foamy beer, only choking slightly and swallows for Bethany, Carver, and Fenris. Hawke makes Norah bring another shot for Fenris. Maker, that's still a mess. She cringes when the clear liquid hits the back of her throat and burns all the way down. Meanwhile on the other side of the table, Fenris makes it painfully obvious he's ignoring her and doing whatever he can to avoid her gaze. Hawk's scared brows narrow as she wonders just what could be so damn interesting at the bottom of that drink. Probably a mage drowning or something.

"Ha! You? Married?" Varric almost chokes on his drink, then wipes his face dry with the cleanest side of his coats arm. "Say it's not so!"

"You took too long to realize your undying love for me, Varric. You're too late. We spent the day shopping for eligible bachelors. So far, Serah Cheese is in the lead but I'm thinking 'Obviously prefers the company of men' could give him a run for his money."

"Please, tell me about this cheese man, he sounds _delicious_." Isabela winks.

Hawke howls, Merrill looks confused before realization hits, and Varric rubs his tired eyes.

"Okay, that was too easy even for you, Rivaini," Varric chimes.

"When others fail, I deliver."

The shots start kicking in violently after that, like a sudden punch to the temple, and it gets to the point where Hawke knows she should probably stop drinking. Except that would be a waste of a perfectly good drink and Hawke had been taught at a young age never to let anything go to waste. She does the brave thing, chugs the drink and waves off Norah, who has stealthily returned to her side with a new pitcher.

"I'll have you all know that I am the potential wife of many dozens of eligible men."

Hawke ignores the cup of water Anders stubbornly forces into her hand once her bobbing head has found a place to rest against the mage's shoulder. "You should see them. Anders, do you want me to stab you?"

"That'd be a lot more threatening if your knife wasn't already impaled in the table."

The rogue reaches behind her, expecting her worn leather sheath but only finds air.

"Hawke, please drink the water," Anders pleads, his face old with worry.

She curses and sips at the cup of water held level at her chapped lips.

"Are you saying that you're inviting me your estate and we get to judge men based purely on their wealth and physical attractiveness? You are telling me this, right Hawke?" Isabela asks.

Hawke nods and knocks over the offered cup. "Why not? My estate is your estate."

"This just might be a dream come true."

"O 're we having a party at Hawke's? You don't mind if I tag along...wait -" Merrill bites down on her lip looking very much ashamed. "That was rude, wasn't' it? I shouldn't have said that."

"Yes, Merrill, you can come." Hawke smiles fondly at the girl, her eyes not quite focused.

Half an hour, five cups, and two bowls of mystery stew later, two intoxicated women and one tipsy hiccupping Merrill brush off all attempts to get them back in their seats. No, they won't stay the night, thank you very much, Anders, because one: Varric's mattress is a plank of wood and two: he does not have files full of eligible men waiting to be judged.

Hawke retrieves her trusty stabbing knife that has been imbedded deep in the wood table. They are armed with an arsenal of four knives, a stolen fork, and a large wooden staff that could be used as a blunt object should anyone try anything funny. The three women bid their final adieus and then stumble out onto the cobblestone streets of Lowtown that run wet with feces flung from chamber pots.

The journey back to Hawke's estate is rather uneventful to say the least. Hawke's and Isabela's combined woots and hollers at anything with a pair of legs ends with many residents averting their gaze and quickening their strides. Upon arriving at the dark estate, Hawke rummages into her leathers in search of the iron key that separates her from the crisp night air and the warmth of a well-attended fire. Three vain attempts to insert the damn thing has her grumbling.

"Pretend it's your seneschal!" Isabela calls wickedly, her laughter is masked by Merrill's shoulder.

"That's not going-oh! I guess it did."

They are welcomed by the soft crackling of the fire, the steady flame casting a warm glow on the dark furnishings. Hawke kicks off her boots then removes her leathers and the other two do the same.

"Keepin' the Dread Wolf out are we?" Merrill asks the mabari, named Robin, who has come to say hello to his companion and her friends.

Robin barks in response.

"He remembers! He's so smart. Hawke, why don't we take him on more trips? He's so darlin'."  So darlin', in fact, that Merrill doesn't even mind when he playfully nips at the end of her staff.

"My slobbering status symbol has been too busy chasing Aveline's slow guards. Haven't you?"

Hawke claps and Robin goes to her side. She bends over to take the mabari's large head into her hands. For a moment the two are calm companions gazing into one another's eyes, the next Robin is eagerly delivering a tongue full of kisses

"Ah, gross!" Hawke cries and pushes him off.

"Marian and Robin," Isabella snickers "Somebody was quite creative in naming him weren't they?" She laughs when Hawke's pushes herself up to her feet obviously fake laugh filling the main hall.

"I don't why, but I had the inexplicable urge to name him 'Little John' at one point.' Hawke gives one more affectionate rub to the mabari before she leads the way to the library. The fireplace has since gone dim for need of kindling. Robin's ears perk up at the familiar name and he bears his sharp teeth, to which Hawke affectionately snaps her own and says, "I didn't like it that much."

"Oh, I bet he'd prefer Big John instead." Isabela raises a thick eyebrow her gaze lowering.

"I am drunk," Hawke states bluntly as she backs herself towards the library's entrance, "But not drunk enough to listen to you talk about my dog's dick."

"You 'ave any firewood?" Merrill inquires, looking the picture of innocence with her large dark eyes as she pokes at the fire. Hawke waves in the general direction of the stairs, which Merrill must have understood because she comes back with an armful of logs.

"Think that's enough, Kitten?"

"Not for a Dalish fire but it's good for a small one like this."

Isabela just nods.

Hawke promises she'll return shortly and then turns on her heels and manages to stumble her way up the large set of stairs and into her living quarters. Once she changes out of her dirty clothes and throws them into a pile at the foot of her bed, it takes little time to find the spare linens tucked away in one of the trunks. Hawke stays there for a second, her cloudy mind enchanted by the scent of fresh sheets flooding her senses when she takes a large whiff. 

On her way back down the stairs, Hawke spies and snatches up a particular bottle of wine imported from Antiva that Mother had been saving for an afternoon with the Viscount...or maybe it was from that mystery suitor. Whatever the case, Hawke digs the corkscrew stubbornly into the cork, but the damn thing goes right through. She's all huffs and curses when she returns to the now toasty library with pastries and booze. Isabela and Merrill have made it their business to peruse the prospective suitors.

"Andraste's holy knickers-" She pulls hard at the cork, aims again, and twists.

"The cork's breaking in the wine. Need help?"

Hawke grumpily hands off the wine bottle to Isabela who, after years of drunken practice, easily uncorks the bottle. She gives a bow then takes a large drink before handing it back to Hawke. 

"Just how I like my wine. I think there's some cork in my teeth."

"Stuff it."

After what feels like ages, Hawke finally allows herself to sit down against the couch. Robin eventually finds her lap. The wine's bouquet smells sweet, a sort of sweet she can't describe from fruits she's never tasted. Sweet, but not overbearingly so, not like the Orlesian women who bath in potent perfumes. Hawke takes a long swig of the liquid, not caring about the weight of the wine when it bursts over her taste buds or even the finish that Mother insists she always take note of. Hawke does pick up the subtle spiced flavor when it hits the back of her throat and the ensuing warmth that fills her. Her chapped lips smile at the opening of the bottle before she hands it over to Merrill.

"None of these men look like they can even get their dick up." A frustrated Isabela shoves her pastry into her mouth and doesn't care when half the thing ends up as crumbs in her cleavage. "Merrill, could you help them with that?"

"Help them with what?" Merrill asks after she's helped herself to the bottle being passed around. "Ohhh….you mean with that. Yes. Yes I can."

A second later Isabela and Hawke explode into a round of gut-bursting laughter that shakes the large barrels above and threatens to wake the entire estate.

"Wait! Wait! You're telling me you've not only thought about it, but you've actually given a guy an erection with blood magic."

"Well, it's harder to get it goin' again after he's done...that on you."

Isabela shouts a loaded holler to the elves' forgotten gods.

"Mark it down, Hawke. Today is the day we learned our adorable kitten has given a man a boner using the terrifying power of blood magic!"

"Why have we not known about this?" asks Hawke as she motions for Merrill to join her on the floor. "This is important magical theory that should, no, needs to be talked about."

"At  _ length _ !"

"Yes, at length." Marian's cheeks are flushed a bright shade of red from heat that crawls up into them. Her laughs and smiles feel warm while she lazily flicks at Merrill's calloused feet.

"Merrill. Merrill. Hey, hey, hi," Hawke fingers catch on the green clothe of the elf's skirt. "How did you find this particularly interesting tidbit out?"

"I just did! I was curious cas' why should he get ta have all the fun? I thought I'd give it a try and well," her hands motions as if the blood magic erection had appeared out of thin air, "t'here it was."

Hawke and Isabela find the others eyes and silently agree that there was obviously something more to the story.

There wasn't more to the story.

Apparently, it had been that simple, a quick bit of dirty fun with a boy in the cramped alienage alleyways. A handjob, thanks for the pick me up I gotta get back to work curiosity, then boom, magical blood boner and what was obviously the best fuck of Merrill's life based on the long pause she takes and the following redding of her ears.

"Now that we know Kitten can give anyone a chubby, may I finally read you these exquisite marriage applications? Listen to this one," Isabela holds out the application so it's easier to read.

"Fergus Smythe, the youngest son of Ferdinand Smythe...who named these people?"

Hawke throws one of the pillows

"Alright! Don't get your knickers all bunched up. Family recently awarded minor name for the collection and burning of bodies after the blight." The pirate stares straight into the fire, her eyes unblinking "I have so many questions."

" 'Hats a ver' important job. They must have been busy for awhile."

"Put him in the maybe pile," Hawke instructs. Isabela hands off the information for Merrill to toss to the side, then starts the next one.

"Count Quintin Stone wishes to bring in new blood into his tight knit family."

"Well, it's always new blood why mention...Oh-." The realization hits Merrill hard. "Wait...nevermind." The three silently agree it's best for Merrill to set that particular application ablaze.

For the next hour, Isabela and Merrill but mostly Isabela take turns reading out loud the worst applications they come across. They're just about finished with the applicants when Hawke dramatically holds up her own.

"What about this one?" Hawke clears her voice "Tobias Bexley, oldest son to the...the..I am too drunk to even read that word," Her two friends snicker, "He enjoys hunting, travel, and giving his time to the less fortunate...blah blah blah, he plans to be something called a surgeon."

"He sounds lovely," Merrill muses dreamily into the wine bottle.

"What's the catch, there's always a catch."

Hawke opens the letter attached. "Dead."

"Dead?" spits Isabela.

"What?" Merrill puts down the bottle, her face gone a pale white "Oh no, I was hopin' he was the one." Merrill sounds a bit too heart broken.

"He...was visiting relatives and was, was on…Merrill, am I'm seeing things or does this really say he was on the receiving end of an Avaar issuing a traditional challenge with a goat."

Merrill, clearly the most sober of the three, leans over to take the letter out of Hawke's grasp and read its contents.

"No, that's what it says. 'It is with great regret that Bexley's family informs Serah Hawke that we will no longer be in need of Madame Hawkes services.'"

"Is this letter calling me a whore?"

Isabella shakes with laughter "That letter is calling you a whore."

"Well...I wish it had gotten here sooner. I'm owed a quite a bit of money."

Merrill loudly clears her voice gaining the eyes and attention of the two rogues.

"Tobias Bexley was sent to the Maker's side after being tragically hit with a goat while he walked the ramparts. The Avaar, whose name will not be mentioned, was aided by a catapult and assures us he meant only to send a challenge, not commit murder. "

When Merrill finishes the letter the library has gone quite.

"That ram could have hit the castle anywhere but it hits him. Well, that's just bad luck there." Hawke motions for Merrill to pass the bottle and takes a swig.

Each continue to go around and badly read off their favorite bits and pieces of the marriage candidates, laughing at some and shuddering at the others. When they're finished with that, Isabela goes to collect whichever applications sent in portraits. Merrill whines at the loss of Isabela's boob pillow, and is forced to roll over and use Robin's belly.

"We're going to play fuck, marry, kill. Alright?" Isabela holds up the first portrait of a man with more sideburns than actual hair.

"Kill. Kill. Kill. Fuck then kill." It's surprisingly easy for Hawke to look at portraits and sort them into piles, even if most of them do end up dead.

"I don't think that's how the game works," interrupts Merrill as Isabella flips to the next portrait for Hawke to declare her intent.

"Who made you an expert on fuck, marry, kill?" Hawke sloppily accuses over lazy lips. She drains the remaining wine Mother had been saving. "These men, these men right here are my potential husbands and I will fuck, marry, kill any one of them that I want. Next candidate!" Isabella holds up Cheese Skin, much to Hawke's obvious delight

"Heeeey! Serah Cheese Skin! All three."

"You'd marry him?" Isabela wonders.

"He's my drunken soulmate."

Drunk Hawke makes plans to write to him. Sober Hawke will love it. Isabela hoists herself up onto the couch that Hawke had not quite made it to.

"We all agree that out of our men we marry Varric, fuck Fenris, kill Anders."

Both Merrill and Hawke throw up their arm in agreement.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hawke awakens to the sickening sound of tiny birds chirping in the estate gardens. Cute little birds which she just knows have purposely flown thousands of miles to wrestle her from her alcohol induced slumber. As if that wasn't bad enough, the single ray of sunshine that makes it through Kirkwall's smoggy sky falls directly onto her eyelids no matter what she does to avoid it. Hawk groans painfully, her neck sore from a night of awkward angles.

"Where are salamanders and things that go boom when they're actually needed?" she says in what sounds like perfectly common tongue to her dehydrated mind, a hangover war cry to anyone looking on. Hawke blindly reaches out to feel for anything, the linens, portraits, pillows, anything to shield her eyes from the relentless sun. With nothing in the vicinity, she allows her body to fall down to the floor. Sweet, sweet relief.

"Good morning, mum, you and your friends have a good time last night?" Bodahn inquires in his booming and chipper voice as the large door to the library bursts open and the manservant comes in holding three silver serving trays. Both Merrill and Isabela lurch up at the noise, one going for the dagger not at her side and the other ready to cut open her wrist.

"I brought you an old hangover cure I learned from my father. Guaranteed to knock some sense into you."

The drinks he producers resemble the bubbling concoctions Father had once spoken about as the chosen potions of the Witch of the Wilds. Isabela, who hasn't even opened her eyes, reaches for the drink, takes a single sniff, and decides she'll do without. Merrill is already back on the ground, her breathing calm and snoring lightly. At one point, Hawke swallows the three offered hangover cures and pushes herself up to start down the hall and into the kitchen.

Before she can get far, she hears her mother.

"For Maker's sake, Marian. Look at you, you look a wreck. Orana go run a hot bath will you? And when you're done, put out the dress I got Marian a few days ago."

The elf servant is in the middle of applying a generous amount of cherry jam to her toast when she drops her breakfast to rush off and complete her task, no doubt fearing the abuse whipped into her by her old masters. Hawke lowers herself into one of the spare chairs, her eyes tired and flushed cheeks pressed against the cool wood.

"I can run my own bath." Hawke peevishly reminds her mother, whose arms are filled with bright yellow flowers, likely another gift from her mysterious suitor.

"Don't you think I know that? But if we all did things at your schedule, nothing would ever get done."

Schedule? She doesn't remember anything about a schedule. In fact, Hawke takes great pains to ensure she lives her life as casually as possible. Not that it helps much, somebody always has something they need help with. And for some reason or another she just looks like she cares. 

"But think of how happy everyone would be if they just- Mother can you please close that damned window? If I hear one more chirping bird, we'll be having roast... whatever species of bird that is."

"Do not snap at me young lady. Now, hurry up and eat. We have an appointment to keep and I certainly won't be late for my date because of your selfish attitude. "

Leandra delicately cuts the stems of the flowers. Hawke sits and watches the bits of green fall down to the ground. 

 


End file.
